


Not A Bang, But A Whimper

by Zayrastriel



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Dub-con/Non-con, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:39:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Melisandre never arrives at Dragonstone, and Joffrey is more sane, or at least more intelligent, than anyone (Sansa) thought.  Result: as Stannis and Renly Baratheon tear each other to shreds, Kings Landing and the North broker a peace deal with Sansa as the unwilling bargain chip.</p><p>She survives, though, and in the end that’s all that matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not A Bang, But A Whimper

Joffrey weds her on a pleasantly warm morning, sun shining unhindered by clouds.  Sansa looks up before she walks into the temple, the first time she’s looked up since leaving her room, clad in white and diamonds.

(She has heard that, in some distant land across the sea, white is the colour of death; of mourning, in dusty deserts under searing, scorching heat.)

 _I mourn_ , she thinks grimly as Cersei (no longer _the Queen_ in her head, merely _that horrible woman_ ) pulls none-too-gently at her arm, ushering her with little subtlety away from the light and into the gloom of the temple.

Sansa watches herself curiously as something-in-her-that-is-not-her mouths the ritual vows and promises to Joffrey, hatefully beautiful in his gold and red.  A dragon, she almost names him, before dismissing the thought with a slight shake of her head that she doesn’t dare carry through with.  She promised herself; no more stories, no more naming herself a saviour.  Nothing will save her now, when even her brother and mother find her not worth the effort to rescue.

 _Besides, Joffrey isn’t a dragon_ , she can’t help adding.  _He’s a little worm, or a disgusting insect.  A coward and insane and my_ husband _._

He leans forwards to kiss her, cruel and possessive and biting down till she can taste blood on her tongue.  As he pulls away, Sansa fights the urge to vomit, till every last trace of him is gone from her.

The coronation is that evening, and she shivers, naked and painted with oil and blood as the crown digs into her skull, pulls at her hair when she’s finally allowed to take it off, just before she lays herself down awkwardly on the enormous bed.

It hurts, all of it; the cruel, dispassionate pinches at her breasts, teeth drawing blood on her neck.  Mercifully, he does not last long inside her (but long enough that when he pulls out Sansa knows his seed is inside her, tainted and diseased); she does not truly feel the pain till after Joffrey has collapsed beside her ungracefully, asleep in an instant.

When his breathing has evened out, soft snores echoing in the vast room, she takes a cloth and scrubs inside her, feels cloth scrape painfully but does not care, because she will _never_ give birth to Joffrey’s child.

 _Never_.

 

~

 

Her belly doesn’t swell as the months pass, and she never wakes in the morning with the roiling stomach and nausea that Queen Cersei warned her of.  When her moon’s blood comes, seven or eight days after the turn of every month, Joffrey orders one of his knights to beat her (but only in private, only ever where no one will see the scars.) 

Once, Sansa’s mother comes to King’s Landing.  They speak little; exchange pleasantries and ritual gifts under the watchful eyes of either the Queen (Sansa isn’t Queen, not really, no matter what she’s told or what titles she’s been given) or other ladies who whisper scornfully behind her back.  They speak little, and Sansa is glad of it because the betrayal stings sharply still.  She does not want to see her mother, unless her mother is taking her back to Winterfell.

“Are you taking me back home?” Sansa asks, one afternoon while half the court looks on, and she takes vicious pleasure in Lady Stark’s violent flinch, in the fury that burns in Joffrey’s gaze as he glares at her.

(He makes her scream that night himself, with a sharp knife wielded with merciless efficiency, but it is worth the pain.)

 

~

 

Joffrey still fucks her, still pinches her skin and beats her; but more and more from habit than from the real interest he had in earlier in their marriage in seeing her suffer.  He takes other women to his bed now; young girls and women closer to his mother’s age alike. 

Those are the nights she relishes, when she can be alone in the godswood or her private chambers, to read and think about how everything has shattered.

It’s on one of these nights that she sits in the gardens, looking at carefully arranged flowerbeds without truly seeing.

“Little bird.”

 _Not-Ser Sandor Clegane_.

“Hound,” Sansa replies tonelessly, letting her eyes linger on the yellow-gold roses she was admiring before she finally turns slowly on the stone bench and gazes up. 

It amuses her that it used to be an effort to look at his face.  It also amuses her, though, that she once found Joffrey beautiful. 

He notices, of course; noticed that moment when she realised that he does not hurt her, does not laugh with the knights when she’s weeping on the floor.  And so they talk now; or at least, Sansa babbles and he nods and grunts in acknowledgement, so when he makes snide comments about cages and birds she doesn’t flinch away.  She even sings sometimes, when he asks her to, because no one else does.

“You’re not with Joffrey tonight,” he says, voice quiet and grating like stone against stone. 

 _Evidently_ , and Sansa can’t help but think that such a word, echoing with a sneer in her head, is something new.  Joffrey’s mark on her, corrosive and irreversible (not like the ones he leaves on her body, that his knights beat into her skin and bones.)

“He’s…busy with another,” Sansa replies with a blush, casting her eyes downwards; not at the thought of Joffrey fucking another woman, but because it’s something she never talks about, never puts into real words that she can _say_.

There’s a sound, low and harsh that sounds almost like a choke; she looks up in alarm, but it’s a moment before she realises that he’s _laughing_ , scars warped into something less frightening with the shift of his muscles. 

“What?!” she asks indignantly – or rather, squeaks.

For a moment he doesn’t respond, still laughing.  After a while, though, his mouth stills, still in a strange half-smile that brings warmth to his face in a way that’s alien but…

 _Nice_.

“After all this time, little bird – and you still can’t talk about your little prince rutting into a whore.”

The words don’t sting; Sansa wonders when that happened to her; whether one day she woke up to not be shocked again, or whether it crept up on her, day by day by day.  “It’s the truth,” she shrugs.  “Truth is truth.”

The smile drops from his face, but she’s not frightened; indeed, his expression is more pensive, more considering than anything, as though he sees something new when he meets her eyes.

“Hmm,” is all he says.

“Sit with me,” Sansa says on an impulse.

The look changes slightly, becomes a mix of wariness and amusement.  “I’m not good conversation, little bird.”

“Sit with me,” Sansa says again with more surety.

He does, and she’s not sure who’s more surprised.

For a long time they’re silent; and then, with a grunt, he pulls a flask out of his cloak, screws it open.  The bitter scent of alcohol, once abhorrent to Sansa but now as welcome as peppermint tea after a long day.

Wordlessly, he offers it to her.

Sansa drinks.

And then they talk.

(And then-)

 

~

 

She wakes up sore between the legs, alone in her bed as the sun shines bright through the window, dappling her skin in different shades of light.

There’s a cloak draped over her naked body, and as she pulls it towards her, inhales the scent, Sansa smiles, a real smile, for the first time in years.

 

~

 

“Does she scream when you fuck her?” Joffrey asks Sandor as he and Sansa eat a stilted, silent dinner. 

The Hound’s expression stays the same, grim and unreadable, though Joffrey stares long and hard at him.  It gives Sansa time to relax her own features, for when Joffrey turns back towards her; enough time that she can respond with a confused, embarrassed “My Lord?” instead of striking him across the face, or snatching the Hound’s sword to destroy the demon king that’s shattered her life.

 

~

 

_Joffrey knows._

_Cersei knows._

_Sansa knows that they know, knows that the Hound knows.  When her belly swells with child,, they force her to bear it long enough to force it from her body, see the smattering of dark, dark hair on its head, long enough for her to weep till there are no tears left as they drown it in front of her._

_The next child is golden, and Sansa sees it –_ him, a blond boy with an angel’s smile _– about once a week. Sansa knows with a dead, resigned certainty that he’ll grow to, if not hate her, then at least not care at all, not care at all for the nine months she suffered to bear him._

_After that, Joffrey doesn’t fuck her anymore; doesn’t speak to her, except in front of full court, with contempt in his voice and a sneer in his eyes._

_Sometimes, resting in Sandor’s arms at night in the gardens, under the light of the moon and the stars, Sansa can almost pretend she doesn’t care._


End file.
